


Everybody Hit The Compound

by The Stephanois (ballantine)



Category: Agent Carter (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Medical, Doctors & Physicians, F/F, Korean War, mash au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-06
Updated: 2015-08-09
Packaged: 2018-03-29 06:26:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,999
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3885823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ballantine/pseuds/The%20Stephanois
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dear Ma, </p><p>War is hell on my hair. Still single. </p><p>Love,<br/>A</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_I. Letters from Korea_

 

Dear Ma,

War is hell on my hair.

Still single.

Love,

A

 

Dear Ma,

If you thought shipping me off here was going to deepen my appreciation for the male form, you've clearly never had to sponge down a septic gut wound in 90 degree heat. Or seen Major Thompson's pale behind waving around the bushes trying to make it with the second shift head nurse. Don't know which was more off-putting.

Still single.

Love,

A

 

Dear Ma,

Met a doctor. Major Carter is smart, devastatingly handsome, and English.

Oh, and a woman.

Sorry.

Love,

A

 

 

_II. A gal was never lost for company_

 

The room is quiet. The only other personnel around is Heidi nodding off in the corner at the nurse station. Peggy feels distantly sympathetic as she tends to her latest patient.

The kid couldn't be more than seventeen. He'd had a confetti burst of shrapnel decorating his left kidney just eight hours previous. Peggy may not have much of a maternal instinct, but she's a good doctor and he needs his temperature and dressing checked regularly.

A perfectly valid reason for her to still be awake at such a late hour, but Nurse Martinelli isn't have any of it.

“I'm monitoring a patient. That's my job,” Peggy says a bit stiffly as the determined girl commandeers her arm and starts to pull her down the row of beds towards the tent entrance.

“It's the nurse's job. _Your_ shift ended hours ago,” Martinelli says. She pauses on her warpath to rap a fist on the metal of the nurse desk. “Hey!”

Nurse Heidi jerks up from where she'd buried her head in her arms, wide-eyed with alarm like she's expecting to hear more choppers coming. Peggy knows the feeling.

“This ain't the spa,” Martinelli informs her before whisking Peggy out of the tent.

The night air outside has a drowsy heat to it, and the yellow glow of the station lamp a few feet away lends more of a flattering accent to the darkness than useful lighting. Peggy feels the exhaustion descend like it had been lying in wait in the alley between the tents.

“I swear, ” Martinelli was saying, her forceful march finally coming to an abrupt stop.

Peggy blinks. “What?”

“If your upper lip gets any stiffer, it'll lose circulation and fall off.” Martinelli glances at her sidelong. “And we can't have that, you know. Unit morale is in the dumps as it is without losing its prettiest girl.”

“I... thank you?” Peggy says, off balance. She is a little taken aback; she's had maybe a handful of conversations with the new nurse but somehow failed to realize she was the whirling dervish type.

Peggy discreetly stretches her back and shoulders and looks around the mostly deserted compound. It's rare to see everything so still and quiet. She smooths down her front, eyeing as she does the nurse's own untucked and unbuttoned uniform, the wrinkle and cling of her vest.

She clears her throat. “Well, since you insist, I'll be off to bed. Your forwardness, by the way, verges on insubordination.”

Martinelli suddenly smiles, impish. “That's what they wrote in my high school yearbook, how'd you know?” And then, apparently in pursuit of Peggy's continued imbalance, she threads her arm through Peggy's and says with an exaggerated flutter of her eyelashes, “Walk me home, doc? I believe I'm on your way.”

Peggy has her own tent set aside from the nurses' bunks – a perk of her rank, though if she were being honest she'd say she really doesn't need any help separating her from the other women in the unit. Being the only female doctor and an English national performed the job just fine.

Having her own tent also just reminded her of the person who was supposed to be sharing it with her.

Peggy realizes that she's brooding about being lonely while walking with company and gives herself an impatient mental shake. “Tell me, Lieutenant Martinelli. How are you settling in here at the 4077th? I haven't had an opportunity to really ask yet.”

“' _Left-_ tenant,'” Martinelli muses aloud to herself, swinging on Peggy's arm slightly. “I could get used to that, but – hey, Angie's just fine when off-duty.” She smiles at Peggy. “Just don't tell your colleagues, all right? I'd rather be just a rank to them.”

Though most of the doctors are married men – some with _children_ – it didn't stop them from trying to let off stress the old-fashioned way. Thompson and Krzeminski were after a new nurse every week. Colonel Stark, Peggy had to acknowledge, was nearly as bad.

“Well, I think you're wise to steer clear of that lot,” Peggy says.

“Is that right?” Martinelli – _Angie_ – says lowly. Peggy notices with approval that she is paying rapt attention to her words. Good to see she has some respect for rank.

“Indeed,” Peggy says crisply. “I'm sure you attended Colonel Stark's orientation lecture on the dangers of venereal disease and the burden an unplanned pregnancy can put on the efficient military operation of a MASH unit.”

“Right,” Angie says after a long moment.

They stroll in silence and then Angie says with renewed warmth, “Say, are you going to the flick tomorrow evening? I heard they're showing _Bedtime For Bonzo_ again.”

“I can't say I'd planned to,” Peggy says. She stops a few feet from Nurse Tent B and smiles politely. “Well, here you are.”

“Here I am,” Angie echoes, a little forlornly. She slides her arm free but then hesitates, looking at Peggy. “Hey, get some sleep, will you? You should take at least as much care with yourself as you do your patients.”

The sentiment surprises Peggy. She doesn't quite know what to do with it, but after a startled moment she smiles again, this time slow and real, a disused configuration of her face.

And Angie smiles back brilliantly.

 

 

_III. The efficient military operation of a MASH unit_

 

Howard finishes the last of his oatmeal with a grimace – clearly Uncle Sam had delivered some more '44 surplus to the mess officers – and looks up from his bowl to find an array of faces looking back at him. Oh, right.

He flips his grip on his spoon and taps it against the bowl commandingly. “All right, I call this meeting to order. I think – Jarvis.” Howard nods to the man on his right. “Jarvis, better do the roll call.”

“Major Margaret Carter – ” Jarvis begins.

“We're all here, Colonel,” Peggy says from his left. She gestures around the table. “As you can plainly see.”

“Sousa's not,” Captain Thompson says.

Father Sousa leans forward over the end of the table, “Jack, I'm sitting right here.”

“Oh, didn't you see you, Father.”

“Better do the roll call,” Howard says again to Jarvis.

Jarvis nods, “Major Margaret Carter.”

No one says anything for a long moment and they all look at Peggy. She sighs and says, “Oh for heaven's sake – yes, _fine._ Here!”

Jarvis makes note. “Captain Dorothy Underwood.”

The pretty head nurse smiles and murmurs, “Present.”

Jarvis makes a note. “Captain Jack Thompson.”

“Yeah.”

Jarvis makes a note. “Captain Raymond Krzeminski.”

Krzeminski grunts something approximating a word in the English language.

Jarvis makes a note.

“Sergeant Edwin Jarvis. Oh! I'm here.” Jarvis's amused smile fades quickly in the face of the blank looks around the table. He clears his throat sternly and returns to his paper. “Lieutenant Colonel Howard Stark.”

“Great,” Howard says, clapping his hands. “Now, to business – ”

Father Sousa leans forward over the table, “Colonel, I'm also here.”

“Let's not get too bogged down by procedure, okay, Father?” Some nerve on that guy. Comes with the cloth, Howard thinks. “Now – who called this meeting, anyway?”

“I did,” Peggy says, and he should have guessed. It's truly the world's misfortune that Peggy had not been born a man; if she were a man he wouldn't have to be here at all. He waves for her to speak.

“I'm concerned that we're getting lax with our security, especially around the radio and command tents. We let nearly anyone drive up into the camp, which is fine, but should you or Jarvis take a poorly timed latrine break, there is nothing to stop the enemy from walking right in and stealing important documents.”

Underwood goes wide-eyed with alarm, so Howard flashes her a reassuring smile. “Don't worry, Dottie. Our documents aren't that important.”

Oh, and then it's the twin cinema of English starch, all “ _Howard_ ,” from Peggy and “ _Sir_ ,” from Jarvis. Howard sits back with a sigh.

“Our security team might be a little more alert if they weren't the laughingstock of the front line,” Thompson says.

“If you're referring to Corporal Dugan,” Peggy starts, but Krzeminski interrupts her with a harsh laugh.

Howard looks around the table. He's missing something, his keen political acumen tells him. “What's this about Corporal Dugan?”

“The man has not been seen in uniform in over a week,” Peggy says, diplomatic to the end.

Thompson shifts in his seat. “I think it's more an issue that he hasn't been seen in trousers.”

Howard catches a significant glance from Jarvis and sits back. “I'm, ah, sure everything's fine. The fellow's probably just bucking for a Section 8.”

“Well, by all means, let's give it to him,” Thompson says. “Even better, stamp the coward a Transvestite and a Homosexual and ship him back to the States.”

“We hardly need to go that far,” Peggy says, eyes narrowed at Thompson. Howard is intimately familiar with the look on her face, but the fool of a captain keeps chugging along.

“He's a disgrace to the unit,” Thompson insists, and Krzeminski nods beside him. “If we don't do something about him, we'll _all_ look looney when the general comes down. And I won't allow a freakshow like that to ruin my career.”

Thompson, Howard remembers in moments like these, was not a draftee like most of them in the camp, but a volunteer. Often, especially in the OR, the distinction carries no weight – and sometimes it does.

Peggy's back is straight and stiff enough to use as a battering ram. Her face is as composed as ever, but her eyes read bloody murder. Poor, innocent Nurse Underwood is glancing between her and Thompson with a look of gentle curiosity, probably doesn't even understand what it is they're all talking about, because they don't have Transvestites and Homosexuals back in Iowa. Krzeminski is picking at his teeth, bored. Jarvis appears to be writing the whole conversation down as faithfully as a court room typist.

“If I may, I have a suggestion to make,” Father Sousa says mildly, leaning forward again – good god, how does the fellow keep appearing like that? “Why don't I talk with the young man. I know him well, he's a devout fellow. I may be able to help him work through whatever it is that's troubling him.”

“Yes,” Howard says gratefully, relieved not to have to talk about the corseted corporal any longer. “Yes, thank you, Father. That sounds like a fine, _respectable_ course of action. Yes. And Jarvis – ”

“Post a new guard shift on the command tent,” Jarvis says, still writing.

“Damn it, man. Let me at least _say it._ ” Howard looks around the table at the disgruntled faces. “Are we done now?” He doesn't wait for a response; they're done when he says they are.

He's the one with the spoon, after all.

–

Corporal Dugan would have fit right in at some of the joints in Angie's old neighborhood. The young man is a glorious picture of contrasts, a modern-day Michelangelesque mishmash of male and female from head to foot.

Bowler hat – never mind the skirts, he could never have gotten away with that uniform violation if he were in anything other than a MASH unit. Luxuriously thick and prominent mustache pointing down to the line of his wide shoulders, which are currently incased in a brilliant cerulean dress. He must have spent a small fortune on his tailoring to get the fabric to fit neatly over his proportions without a single strained stitch or loose bunching of fabric; Angie thinks she should ask who did the work. Sticking out from under his impeccably neat hemline are two well-muscled and hairy calves. Apparently even someone of his determination wouldn't subject himself to the torture of pantyhose.

A shame, Angie thinks; if he's trying to get a discharge for insanity, that would probably do the trick.

She stops in front of the command tent where the corporal is standing guard. He's holding his rifle in an perfected easy stance, and she admires the look of the gun against the pretty dress for a moment before addressing him. “Is Sergeant Jarvis in?”

“He stepped out ten minutes ago, ma'am.”

She hesitates for a moment, wanting to unload the requisition forms under her arm but thinking she should wait to hand them over directly. She flashes a smile at the corporal and turns to go, and almost smacks into Underwood.

The other nurse is hovering, eyeing the tent and barely sparing a glance for Angie before sidestepping to avoid a collision. It's a neatly executed move, and Angie blinks at her uncertainly. She doesn't have long to wonder what just tripped the wire in her mind, because Sergeant Jarvis's voice is coming over the compound speakers in his standard clarion call:

“Attention, impending choppers, all medical personnel to the operating tent.... Attention, impending choppers, all medical personnel to the operating tent....”

 

 

_IV. Conversations in the OR_

 

Peggy feels a trickle of sweat make its way down her forehead, but before she can ask for assistance Angie has taken care of it with a businesslike pat of cloth. She manages what she imagines is a grateful flick of her eyes before bending once more over her patient's gaping chest wound.

Krzeminski has been taking a five minute water break in the corner and watching her work. She can glimpse his eyes on her table, the mean smile on his face. When he sees her grimace down at her patient, he finally pipes up.

“Whatsa matter, Carter? Blood making your stomach turn?”

A patently ridiculous comment that doesn't deserve response. But.

She doesn't look away from her patient and tempers her voice before replying. “Your concern is duly noted, Captain, but you have no need to worry. I fancy I've seen more blood in my time than you have.”

“A pubescent girl's seen more blood than he has,” Angie mutters not too quietly. Krzeminski had been stationed with the MASH unit only a little while, having been stationed at a convalescent hospital beforehand.

Her words immediately elicit a groan from around the room.

“Colonel,” Thompson says, pointing a gloved finger slick with bile and blood at Peggy's table. “I don't see why the OR should have to listen to such disgusting talk.”

“I'm sorry if it's bringing down the tone in the room for you,” Howard says a little carelessly, looking down into a mess of torn and bloody skin for the bullet that was slowly killing the boy in front of him.

Thompson returns to his patient but doesn't quit talking. “It's stuff like this that I'm going to call Command about. This unit is losing it.”

At that, Howard does look up. “That's ridiculous. This unit is perfectly normal.”

The guard shift switches out, and Corporal Dugan enters the tent in a sleek maroon dress. A delicate matching purse is tucked between the butt of the rifle and his side.

Thompson twitches.

Father Sousa wisely chooses that moment to leave the bedside of a dead boy to go comfort the living, “Jack, we've discussed this – ”

Thompson, because he's a doctor first and only an absolute bastard second, keeps his hands busy on his patient as he continues his diatribe. “Yes, we have, and you don't seem to be keeping up your end of the bargain. What kind of priest are you, anyway, turning a blind eye to these... _perversions_ – cross dressers and women talking back – ”

Peggy tracks the confusion and anxiety growing on the patients' faces – they're all mostly out of it, but still capable of picking up on voice tones. She snaps, “For heaven's sake, Captain, save it for the debrief. This is neither the time nor the place.”

“She's right,” Howard says, before Thompson can respond. “And consider that an order, since you seem to respect them so much.”

And with that the noise in the OR lapses back into the regular clink of instruments and underlying chorus of moans and muttered instructions. Peggy shakes the whole conversation off, not noticing her nurse, who glares furiously across the room at Thompson.

 

 

_V. Pranks and protocol_

 

Some days later Angie stops beside Underwood on the road. The other woman has an almost alien expression on her face, a mixture of fascination, contempt, and hunger. Angie follows her gaze to where Captain Thompson is lying spreadeagled on his belly in the dirt, rubbing his face into the ground and sighing.

“So that's what that does,” Angie says. “Huh.”

“Do you know something about this, Lieutenant?” A certain crisp voice asks behind her.

Angie starts and looks around to try a grin out on Peggy. She receives only an arch look in return.

Angie never did much see the point in trying to lie about things like this; she'd always desired the credit more than the security of getting away clean.

“I put ether in his aftershave,” Angie tells her with a shrug. She glances back at Thompson. “If it's having this strong an effect, it just tells us what we already knew – he always goes a little too heavy on that stuff.”

Underwood drifts closer, head cocked and looking a little too interested in the whole thing, but Angie's not one to judge how a girl gets her kicks. She's already come to the conclusion that Underwood's a weird one. She watches Peggy's expression instead, the revolving door of emotions: amusement, sternness, mirth, disapproval. She can only hope the door lands right-side-out.

“Captain Thompson's a big boy,” Peggy says at last. “The ether's effects should wear off quickly, but I need you to show me the bottle so I can replace it immediately. Can't have a repeat of this.”

They walk away from the scene, down past the mess to the officer's tent. It sleeps four men, but to Angie's relief, none of them are presently inside.

The tent is a pig sty, cramped and full of unmade cots, dirty crumpled clothing strewn over every surface, and the sharp tang of all things damp and _male_. They both wrinkle their noses as soon as they step inside.

Angie points to the small footlocker in the corner, the surface of which is cluttered with a shaving mirror and numerous bottles. Peggy picks up the aftershave and shakes her head with a sigh.

“This isn't even from the Post Exchange. Leave it to Captain Thompson to use special order product.”

Angie sees her frustration and, all right, she feels a little guilty _now_. The whole point had been to get back at the lug for Peggy, and now here she was just messing things up for her more.

“Look, I don't want to create more trouble for you,” she says, grabbing the bottle from the other woman. “I'll just get rid of this. He'll think he lost it or ran out or something.” She looks at Peggy for a moment, sees her hesitation, and adds, “Or you could just report me – ”

Peggy looks startled at the suggestion and quickly searches her face intently. “You misunderstand,” she says. “I care about you. Oh – Colonel Stark would probably think this all was highly entertaining, but if Captain Thompson files a formal complaint, there'd be nothing he could do – ”

Angie stops hearing anything after _I care about you_ and smiles like a complete goof at Peggy. She watches her eyes narrow in concentration, her lips move as she talks to herself. She's so distracted by it all, she doesn't even realize that she's drifted closer. _Much_ closer.

“Angie,” Peggy says quietly, lips barely moving.

“Yes,” Angie sighs.

“Angie, are you trying to kiss me for the first time in a tent that smells of jock strap and poorly-distilled hooch?”

Angie is held arrested a few inches from Peggy's face. Two thoughts immediately occur to her. The first is that, while in the past she has made it with girls in all sorts of places out of necessity, a duchess like Peggy probably expects – hell, _deserves_ – better. The second, more pressing, thought goes: Peggy didn't say no.

“How do you feel about a picnic?” She asks, not easing back, but at least looking up from Peggy's mouth to her eyes. “I know this real pretty spot overlooking the mine field.”

Her hand, sweaty with nerves and the heat of the tent, clutches around the bottle of etherized aftershave held between them. Hold steady, Martinelli.

Peggy looks amused, which, while not the ecstasy or barely-restrained lust she might hope for, is still much better than a hard slap and a report to the Army Psychiatric Board. She's even more thrilled when Peggy grabs the hand not holding the aftershave.

“You're a bold thing, aren't you,” Peggy says, drawing her closer. Angie frantically tries to read the cues, wonders if the original complaint against the ambience of the filthy bachelor tent still stands. Heedless of her confusion, though, her body performs a traitorous impression of a weak-kneed starlet. All at once they're pressed against each other, and Angie has never in her life found the feeling of double-breasted shirt pockets so erotic. Peggy's hand is gently rubbing hers, the fingers stroking the grooves between her knuckles. Her head is – her head is tilting – _just so_ –

“Now, ain't that something,” Krzeminski says, emerging from a pile of sheets and laundry like a bridge troll popping out of the muck.

Angie jumps, badly startled, and the bottle of aftershave goes flying. It hits the small metal table in the middle of the tent and shatters.

“I knew there was something wrong with you,” he says, straightening to his full burly form and smirking at Peggy. He doesn't spare a glance for Angie. “I can't wait to file the report with your adoring Stark. Watch his face when I tell him you're a fucking dyke – ”

Angie is feeling fainter with every horrible new word slipping from his mouth, but Peggy is studying him with her chin held high and a contemptuous look upon her face. Angie tries to feel understanding when Peggy takes a calculated step to the left, away from her, like they're not associated at all.

Krzeminski turns his body to follow her, like a snake eyeing its prey.

“I don't think you'll be telling anyone anything at all, Krzeminski. Nothing people will believe, anyway.” Peggy takes another small step to the left. The table is now between the two of them.

“Why? You really think they're going to take the word of some hincty English bitch over a Captain of the United States Army?”

“No,” Peggy says simply. She doesn't waste any more breath on speaking – she's too busy grabbing his face and dragging it down to slam against the tabletop. There's a flat ugly _crack_ , and he struggles for a moment, yelling and nearly throwing her off, but she maintains enough of a hold to grind his face into the puddle of aftershave for a precious few seconds. By the time she lets go and he slumps backwards onto the ground, his eyes are unfocused and his mouth is gaping open dumbly.

Angie, it must be said, is also gaping dumbly.

“First the terrible mishap with Captain Thompson earlier on, and now you.” Peggy carefully begins wiping up the excess liquid and broken glass on the table, bundling it all away into a spare shirt. Her voice is completely cool and not even slightly out of breath. “I suspect you two will be cautioned against experimenting further with running an illegal still out of your tent. You're lucky, people have been known to blind themselves that way.”

Krzeminski is insensate, so the speech is wasted on him, but Angie is in awe – and maybe a little disturbed by the ruthlessness that has just unfurled in front of her. She'll never admit to the latter, though.

“Never seen a dame with such a talent for violence,” she says, and her voice doesn't shake because she is an _amazing actress_. “Do you think he'll remember? What if he tells someone?”

She hates this feeling, this sense of worry. She hasn't even gotten a kiss yet, it's just not _fair_.

“Oh, he'll probably remember,” Peggy says, because sugar-coating is an alien concept to her type. “But this should give us enough cover for plausible deniability.” She glances at Angie. “People might talk, though. You're the one who has to bunk with the other nurses – will you be all right?”

Angie waved her off. “We don't really click all the much anyway. And who doesn't like having the showers to themselves?”

Peggy looks up from gathering the last pieces of broken glass and smiles. It's sincere, if a bit grim. Angie reads the hesitation in it and decides to throw caution to the wind. She ignores all the consequences and bizarre turn of events and focuses on what really matters.

“So how about that picnic?”

 


	2. Chapter 2

_VI. I'll never get out of this world alive_

 

_Different war, same OR._

That's what Steve had said to her at the start of all this, but Steve, darling, you were _wrong_. There is always a senselessness to the butchery doctors treat, but this is nothing like last time, when the stakes were so high for everyone. _And you were here._

It's a thought normally kept under lock and key, only let out in the lonesome darkness of her personal quarters when she's on the verge of sleep and can't keep it in any longer. It comes to Peggy this time when she's awake – torturously, helplessly awake and deep into her second 24-hour shift of the week.

She'd stumbled back to her tent, was all set to sleep never mind the daylight, hadn't even bothered to change out of her uniform or comb her hair when _that sound_ had filtered in to her senses – that tickle to the ear drums that allowed a body to droop for a moment in disbelief before gathering up once more at half-strength.

By now even the faintest sense of an approaching chopper provoked a Pavlovian response in the doctors and nurses, adrenaline spiking in every exhausted body in the unit. The rhythm of the blades was their beat to quarters.

The chopper had rounded the hillside and the compound burst into action.

She scrambled up from the cot she'd barely just collapsed on and ran with the nurses across the wind-stirred ground to assess the wounded and shout orders. Stepped into the operating tent arms-first to where Lieutenant Martinelli was ready and waiting with a scrub jacket and face mask.

“Did you at least get some sleep?” Martinelli asked. She reached with surprisingly gentle fingers to draw Peggy's unbridled hair out of the way and tie it back for her.

“I think I might have hallucinated getting sleep,” Peggy had said. “That's almost as good, right?”

They ducked into the operating room and into the first pieces of a young soldier.

–

Hours later and the sun has set on another shitpot day in Korea.

Howard lets his office darken around him, the shadows creeping around the walls until they meet and grow, and still he doesn't move except to pour some more gin into the glass on his desk. He doesn't turn any lights on.

(If he turned lights on, people would know he was inside. They might come looking for him. He'd trust Jarvis to turn them away unless it's really important, but Jarvis has a damnably upright and moral definition of _important_.)

He spent sixteen hours in the OR today and another several on the phone to Command, wheedling for new shipments of plasma and AB positive. Howard had to watch Thompson watch a patient die because they had nothing to give him, and he doesn't want to do it again.

Howard feels the unit slipping. They've had too many hits in too short a period of time. Supplies are running low and there's something about filing requisition requests on forms that are still stamped with 1944 that feels self-defeating.

This isn't a war, Howard thinks, it's an exercise in perversity.

Maybe things would be different if Steve were still here, but it's a dumb thought, that one man would make any difference in a world marching eyes-open and hearts-heavy to World War III.

He drinks in his shabby command tent until he's numb, and then he goes shuffling off to his personal quarters, staring down at his dust-covered shoes and the gravel of the compound. He misses paved streets and the lights and noise of the city. Firm walls that weren't staked into the ground. Women in bright dresses that floated around their calves as they whirled across the dance floor.

Peggy is standing outside the surgery ward, shoulders down and head back.

He doesn't stop walking, just corrects course and soon he's next to her. He lets his heavy, heavy head fall back with a vague sloshing sensation and together they stare at the starry sky. Howard wishes he could say the stars were a revelation, but he's lived some time in the middle of New Mexican desert during the last war. Peggy's a city girl, though. Maybe it means something to her.

When she speaks, it's not what he expects. (It never is, with Peggy.)

“Captain Thompson spent a little too long looking at our North Korean prisoner earlier.”

Howard feels his liquored stomach curdle and resists the urge to run over and check the man himself. “And?”

Peggy wipes her brow with an uncharacteristically clumsy hand. He turns his head away from the stars to look at her instead. “And I had words with him.” Her lips curl into a miserable smirk and she laughs a little. It's an ugly sound. “He didn't like that. Eventually Father Sousa coaxed him away, but it wasn't... it wasn't pleasant.”

Howard doesn't know what to say. “The man's had a rough day, Peg.”

“We've all had a rough day, Howard. You don't see the rest of us contemplating betraying our Hippocratic oath.”

Howard sighs. Rubs his eyes and drags a hand down his unshaven cheek. Shrugs, lets his hand drop. He didn't know how to explain that it was different for Thompson, that some men were just angry and there was nothing you could do but get out of their way. “Well, the important thing is he didn't do it.”

“Yes, I suppose,” she says after a moment.

They lapse into silence, Howard watching Peggy watch the sky and waver on her feet. He does a little mental math and – “How long's it been since you slept?”

She blinks, finally looking at him. She doesn't say anything, and he curses under his breath.

He thinks, if she wasn't liable to deck him, he'd grab her hand and drag her to her tent. Or if she's as dead on her feet as she appears, he'd carry her the distance. It's late and dark and there's no one around for her to get embarrassed if he took care of her. He imagines the sleepy warmth of her body and feels a little cold underneath the humid heat of the night and weight of alcohol in his blood.

It would all be impossible even she didn't hate him for what happened to Steve.

“Go to bed,” he says at last. “Consider it an order, if. If that makes any difference.”

She nods silently and he turns away again.

–

Four hours later, sun creeping over the horizon, and there's a jeep skidding gravel into the clearing outside the OR. The pallet on its trunk is burdened with a couple moaning bodies. Sergeant Jarvis gets on the horn.

In her tent, Peggy lifts her eyelids. She feels bruised all over, but reaches for her uniform jacket and boots.

–

Peggy has always considered herself a proactive person, so she doesn't know why it takes her so long to reach the obvious solution that all the helicopters need to be destroyed.

“Peggy,” Angie says cautiously. “You're still up. And... communing with the choppers? What're you doing?”

Peggy doesn't bother to look over as she answers. “Angie, darling, come help me with this bolt. I can't seem to get it loose.”

“I would've stopped her myself, Lieutenant,” came Jarvis's poorly-hushed words. “But I thought she might hit me – and,” he adds hastily, “of course it wouldn't be appropriate for me to touch her in her current state.”

“Don't worry, I'm glad you came and got me,” Angie says. She appears suddenly at Peggy's side, eyes wide and concerned. “Peggy? Why don't you come to bed?”

“Can't,” Peggy says emphatically. “If I give up now, the helicopter will still work.”

“I see,” Angie says. “And that's... bad?”

Peggy's confused; Angie is not usually this slow. She spares her a concerned glance.

“Yes, of course it is.” Peggy gives up on the wretched bolt and moves over to where she thinks the pistons are – surely if she just hits them hard enough with this wrench...

“Hey, Peg, talk to me – why is that bad?” Angie presses. She follows closely behind as Peggy rounds the curve of the machine.

Peggy hefts the wrench impatiently. “Can't go up,” she says, “can't come down full of bodies.” Despite her softer feelings towards the other woman, she can't help the slight sneer that creeps into her voice. “Obvious, really.”

She turns back to the full open engine of the helicopter and raises her arm. Angie and Jarvis both give a shout, and a firm hand catches her wrist.

Without pause or thought, Peggy stamps down on her assailant's foot and drives her elbow back into their ribs until they double over. When they release her, she moves forward without looking back, still intent on her goal.

“I am _so sorry_ , Jarvis.” Angie says somewhere in the background.

“Quite all right, Lieutenant,” Jarvis wheezes.

Peggy looks around in confusion. Angie spots her glance and takes the opportunity to loop a firm arm around her waist.

“Peg, why don't you just come with me? You need to get some sleep.”

Peggy is torn. Angie's body is warm and solid against her own and she's so _tired_ but then there's –

“What about the helicopter?”

“Hey, I'll take care of it, okay?” Angie takes in her skeptical look and says, “I know my way around an engine, all right? My dad and brother run a garage back home, can't be too different.”

Peggy still hesitates. Angie squeezes, fingers slipping down over her ribcage, and Peggy shivers a little.

“Please, Peggy.”

She blinks and tries to smile through her fog. “I knew you were trying to get me in bed, but I had no idea you'd be so pushy.” A few feet away she hears a peculiar choking sound, but Angie's firm hand stops her head from turning to see what it is. She softens, allows the other woman to draw her away away from the helicopter.

After a few feet, Peggy realizes that Angie's shoulder is the perfect height to rest her head on, so for once she does.

Angie startles slightly at the pressure but clutches before she can jerk away and apologize.

“Keep on marching, Major,” she says softly.

Back in her tent, she doesn't give Angie much of a choice. Forgetting about the helicopters completely in lieu of her lieutenant, she keeps hold of her arm. It's too dark to see her expression, but Angie goes peaceably, letting her draw her down to the thin military cot.

And so finally, with a slender arm curving over ribcage just under her chest and a solid warmth pressed up against her side, finally, Peggy sleeps.

 

 

_VII. Booze, bandages, and broads_

 

 _All bets are off,_ as her good-for-nothing card-playing brother would say.

 _The flag is up_ , her motor-loving father would say.

 _Honey, I'm concerned about your friendship with that girl_ , her rosary-clutching mother would say.

Angie was ready to go, she was pretty sure _Peggy_ was ready to go – she just needed to find the right time and approach.

–

Several days later and it's like some kind of sign, this difficulty Angie is encountering in getting Peggy alone. Like maybe God really _didn't_ approve. She's faced down many obstacles in her life – parents, nuns, teachers, _cops_ – but never has she tried so hard and gotten so little.

Of course, she's never tried to have sex in a war zone before.

The whole thing has moved past frustration and into the territory of a personal challenge. If she ever manages to seal the deal, she might be too distracted by her triumph to properly enjoy the event.

“Angie, what on earth are you thinking about?”

“Hm?” Angie blinked back into focus. Peggy is sitting across from her, fork poised over a tray of vintage rations the mess officers were trying to pass off as food.

“You have the most peculiar look on your face. Are you feeling well?”

Angie looks at her then, really _studies_ her. Peggy's got her uniform on, pressed and clean, and not a lock of hair is out of place. Her lipstick, while not strictly within the regs, is flawless. Her eyes are dark, concerned, and infuriatingly hard to read.

“I've got some schnapps back in my bunk,” Angie says suddenly.

Peggy pauses and flicks her eyes around the room discreetly. “It's the middle of the day, Angie.”

Angie grins. “What better time for me to ask the best doctor in the camp to show me that new field dressing Colonel Stark was going on about in his lecture last week?”

And, well, when Peggy makes her mind up, she wastes no time. If Angie had been uncertain of her reception before, the speed with which the other woman stands and gathers their trays up would have put her mind at ease.

“Schnapps, you say?” Peggy says as they walk out of the mess tent.

“Wasn't sure if you needed a little liquid courage.” Spoken like a challenge, not because Angie thinks Peggy is some kind of shrinking violet, but because she is curious about how she'll respond.

Turns out she responds to challenges with an efficient dispatch of force; she yanks Angie sideways into the supply tent.

–

They end up against some stacked crates of bandages.

Angie gets her hands up around Peggy's face and she's finally getting those lips, the flat taste of that lipstick, and building warmth underneath as they move together. She's content with that, just that, at first – god, she feels like she been waiting an eternity to be this close, to breathe in the smell of her skin and hair –

Peggy isn't content. Her hands are moving briskly, pulling Angie's uniform shirt out from underneath her belt and efficiently moving over the buttons, all the while pressing her further back against the bulk of crates and only letting up for air in order to suck along the thin skin where her pulse beats in her throat.

She gets the shirt unbuttoned and pushes it off her shoulders but soon abandons the effort in favor of running her hands down Angie's back. Angie is left with her arms tangled up in her sleeves and pinned to her sides. She pushes forward anyway and keens until Peggy covers her mouth with her own again, drowning her cries with a string of long, thorough kisses.

The thought floats up somewhere through the haze of arousal that she's being far too passive.

Angie strips off the remainder of her shirt and reaches for Peggy's belt at the same time Peggy is reaching for hers. They separate the barest amount they have to in order to speak.

“Do you – ?”

“Yes, let me just – ”

Her intent is clear in her voice, and Angie's fingers fly to the buttons on her trousers as Peggy does the same opposite.

Angie hops impatiently on one foot as she struggles to get disrobed. What moron ever said women _wanted_ to wear trousers, anyway?

A loud clatter from the other side of the tent. They both freeze. After a moment of hard listening, they hear it: footsteps coming past the rows of shelving, about to reach their aisle.

Angie hurriedly starts doing up the hard-won progress on her trousers, batting away Peggy's hands when they reach to help. A second more and she's shoving the other woman away altogether in a bit of silent but firm communication. Peggy has much more to lose than Angie.

Peggy, eyes narrowed and mouth pursed, ducks away and out the other entrance just as the footsteps round the corner.

It's Dottie, the head nurse.

She's in the process of shoving something up her shirt when she spots Angie, and she goes sort of still all over, like a viper. They stare at each other. The solitary bulb overhead does little to help the tense mood; Dottie's face is underwritten in shadows and surprisingly grim for a blonde giggler from Iowa.

“What are you doing in here?”

“Why are you in here?”

Both widen their eyes at the impertinent question.

After a long moment, Angie nods her head and asks, “What's under your shirt?”

“Where _is_ your shirt?”

Another stalemate. Silence resumes.

Then all at once Underwood adopts a look of almost comical chagrin – sinister and obvious in the strange lighting – and she says, “Look, I didn't mean to interrupt your...” A blink like she's shuffling her script and she revises, “I didn't mean to interrupt.” She hefts the contents of her shirt like a proud mother. “I'm just sneaking some food out, you know how the mess officers can get. Girl could starve on the portions they gives us.”

She smiles at Angie, that sweet, glassy smile that gets all the men blushing and always makes Angie feel old and jaded. There's something off about that smile, Angie sees that now – but at the moment she accepts it gratefully. Nods like this whole thing has been just a misunderstanding.

“And I was just looking for a new uniform top – mine got covered in sputum from our last chopper unload.” It's a common enough problem.

They smile at each other again. Angie tries to surreptitiously reach up and tug her undershirt down over her stomach. Underwood's shirt load shifts and she casually tries to hold it all in. It's with some mutual relief that they finally begin the time worn female ritual recitation of insincere apologies and reassurances.

“Of course you were! I'm so sorry if my tone was – ”

“Yeah, no, me too. Real sorry. I didn't mean –”

“Of course you didn't. And _I_ didn't mean to cause any offense.”

“No, none taken – ”

“It's just, you know, with all the _gossip_ – ”

“Yeah.”

Underwood laughs, “I thought you might be a depraved lesbian!”

Angie throws her hands up, like _whataya gonna do?_ “And I thought maybe you were a communist _spy_!”

They both laugh and, eyes locked and mouths stretched wide in grotesque smiles, start to edge backwards and away. It's a reverse standoff, a veritable Retreat at the O.K. Corral. By the time Underwood finally slips out of the other side of the tent, Angie's face hurts, and she wishes she could say it was from all the kissing.


	3. Chapter 3

_VIII. A good Italian girl_

 

It can be stressful, you know, the war.

Father Sousa worries about the women especially, since they don't have access to the same outlets and relievers that the men do – not that he can strictly acknowledge many of those outlets. But thousands of miles away from home and family, trapped in the claustrophobic and high-intensity demands of the unit... He's seen men snap under the pressure and would hate to see any of the women go the same way.

Normally he doesn't seek any of the nurses out. He prefers to wait for them to come to him, mindful that not every woman will be comfortable unburdening themselves to a strange man, no matter the type of collar around his neck. And that doesn't even go into the topics often at the forefront of their concern – a man, typically. They're usually shy of discussing those troubles, assuming he'll respond with a wave of brimstone and fire about extramarital relations. Like he hasn't been in the military for nearly ten years. Like he doesn't understand human nature. Like he doesn't belong to a Church that prohibits divorce.

Usually, of all the nurses' virtues he worries about, Angela Martinelli's the least. A good Italian girl like that, she doesn't allow any of the men to turn her head.

But it's been a rough couple of weeks around camp, and he's noticed her looking a little harried now and then. Arriving flustered and late to his sermons, color up and straightening her uniform like she'd had to leave the nurses' tent in a hurry. He's heard some of the other women in camp won't talk to her, which is concerning; one can't last long in war without the support of friends.

He catches her just as she's leaving the operating tent, face mask and apron still on. She glances at him and her eyes crinkle in a smile.

“Father, I'm happy to tell you that no one in there will be needing your services today.”

“And I am happy to hear that.” He folds his hands in front of him and tilts his head. “Though I like to think my services are just as useful to the living as they are to the recently departed.” And then, before she can make her excuses, he adds, “I was actually looking for you. Hoping to catch your ear for a moment, if you don't mind. I think there are some things we should discuss.”

He doesn't think he imagines the way her eyes widen or how they flash in panic. _Ah_. Often those who would avoid counsel are the ones who need it the most.

With gentle determination, he secures her agreement to talk after dinner and walks away feeling a little lighter, like maybe he can make some small difference after all.

–

He has dinner with Doctor Thompson, as has become his custom over the months.

There's a good man somewhere in Jack, deep down under the pomade, ego, and womanizing. He always makes an appearance in the chapel tent on Sundays. (Strictly speaking, Jack's actually Episcopalian, but Sousa's a man of God and forgives all.)

He is troubled, however, when Jack won't let go of this vendetta against Major Carter.

“Put yourself in my shoes, Father.” Jack gives their surroundings a grim look. “I've got Krzeminski walking around in his bathrobe. You know I had to fish out a cigarette he'd dropped in the chest cavity of a soldier the other day?”

“My goodness,” Father Sousa leans forward, shocked. “Was it lit?”

“Nah, he'd already finished, it was just the stub.” Jack waves it off, getting back to the point. “The enlisted men, they rarely salute. They think they can sit with just anyone in the mess. And now that freak in heels shows up and starts asking the nurses for hair curling tips. So you have to understand, Carter's the final straw.” He leans forward, beseeching. “She's _ruining_ this war!”

Years of experience in the confessional have trained Father Sousa for moments like this. He pats Jack's arm and murmurs about God's will and love and the virtue of forebearance.

“When the war ends, you'll look back and see this as a time of personal growth,” he tells him.

Jack looks mildly aghast. “Ends? You don't think that'll be anytime soon, do you?”

Father Sousa pauses, studying him, and then firms up his smile and pats his arm again.

_God's will and love and the virtue of forebearance._

–

Angela is fidgeting in the pew when he returns to the chapel. Her wide eyes are not those of a girl at peace with herself.

Father Sousa settles himself in the pew in front of her and turns to give a comforting smile.

“Angela,” he says.

“Father,” she returns. They sit in a silence he makes no effort to break. It's one of the tricks of the trade, so to speak. It's not like people come into the confessional ready and prepared to spill all.

Finally, twisting her hands together in her lap fretfully, she says, “So what did you want to talk about?”

He says peaceably, “I only wanted to offer you a private, safe environment in which to unburden yourself.”

She tenses a little. “What makes you think I have anything to unburden?”

“There are few among us who don't have something, and,” he gives her a sympathetic, knowing look, “I can't help but notice how agitated you've been recently.”

What she says next takes him by surprise.

“It's just all the trouble Major Carter's been having recently with her fathead male co-workers.” She looks quickly at him. “No offense, Father. You're obviously not included.”

He inclines his head. “Major Carter is a strong, proud woman. You should have more faith that she will persevere. Now, come, that cannot be the source of all your anxiety.”

Angie blinks wildly at him for a moment before, to his horror, bursting into tears.

“It's just that her grandmother is doing poorly,” the girl sobs, hiding her face in her hands. “And whenever I think about it, it makes me think of _my_ nanna, who's so supportive of my acting career. She was very disappointed when I came out here, y'know, and – ” She continues on from there, wailing about the lure of the stage and her gam-gam.

There are many reasons Sousa became a military chaplain, and more than half of them involved his discomfort with crying women.

“Oh,” he says, grasping for something helpful to say. “So, you are _very_ concerned for your friend.” She sobs louder. “Well, this is a mark in your favor.” Angela glances up at him from between her fingers and he nods fervently. “It is indicative of the generosity with which you deploy your loyalty and affections.”

“Right.” She says thickly and dabs at her eyes before fixing them on him earnestly. “And I am very affectionate of Peggy.”

When Father Sousa only smiles a bit desperately back, she relaxes. He thinks maybe it's all over, but then, oddly, she appears to steel herself.

“...Which is why I wish to know how _you_ regard her.”

He blinks, taken aback, but she only waits and watches him.

“...Well, Major Carter is a fine, _fine_ doctor,” he hastens to say. “One of the best.”

“Is that what you're going to say during the investigation?” She prods.

Father Sousa is a little surprised to hear she knows about that. Investigations are supposed to be conducted quietly; no one wants an officer undermined before judgment is passed. He has tried to keep his ear out of the gossip, knowing the investigation is more about Major Carter's gender than any of the slander making the rounds. Even if some aren't able to treat such matters with the sensitivity they deserve, _he_ certainly is.

“I'm afraid I can't speak to that,” he says. “But suffice to say, I admire and respect Major Carter very much.”

“Yeah, well,” Angela mutters, “I wish others had a little of your sense.”

Her tone takes him by surprise – such anger and resentment. He watches her face closely with concern. If he allows such feelings to remain, he fears it might fester, poison her spirits and eventually that of the camp.

“It's unfortunate,” he says delicately, placing a paternal hand on her shoulder. “But you have to understand, Jack and the other doctors, they grew up in a different world. It can be a hard adjustment. Ease back and things will get better in time. You'll see.”

“Time,” Angela echoes. She gives him an oddly forced smile and pats his hand before carefully removing it from her shoulder and standing. “Well, let's hope that's what Peggy gets. Though I hear waiting is a lot easier when you see an end in sight.”

–

When Angie stops by Major Carter's personal tent later that evening, Peggy is already in her off-duty outfit, silk robe thrown over a loose undershirt. She is sitting up and reading by the light of a tiny bedside lamp.

Her face betrays a little surprise when Angie marches straight across the floor, climbs on the bed, lifts her shirt, and buries her face in the soft plushness of her stomach.

“You know, Angie,” Peggy says bemusedly from above. “I'll always treasure these little moments we have together.”

Angie grunts but finds it hard to hang on to her bad mood when she can feel Peggy's stomach muscles leap like they're tickled. She wonders if it would be unforgivably unsexy to give in to instinct right now and blow a raspberry.

“Do you... want to come out of there and talk about it?”

“I don't know,” Angie says thoughtfully, angling her face upwards a little. “The view under here is pretty grand.” Peggy nudges her and she relents, relocating her head to her lap. She stares up at the dull brown canvass of the tent's ceiling and tries not to appear too grateful when Peggy runs her fingers through her hair.

“What are you going to do if they send you home?” She asks before she can rethink the question.

“I don't know,” Peggy says. “I suspect I'll find a job in a private practice somewhere. Or, I don't know, maybe open my own. Whatever they do or say to me, they can't take away my skills or knowledge. I'll still be a doctor.”

“That's such a healthy attitude,” Angie says carefully. “It makes me want to _die_.”

Peggy laughs, “You're so dramatic.” She curls forward over her, smiling, and it's easy from there to draw her in those last few inches for a long and thorough kiss.

“And what about you, Liuetenant,” Peggy says when they break off. She runs a hand down her face and cups her jaw, dark eyes intent. “What shall you do?”

Angie stares up at her, heart beating like a mad thing. _Ask me to come with you_ , she thinks – and is promptly appalled with herself.

Operating on alarm and instinct, she rolls over and starts working on Peggy's trousers to cover the thought.

“I expect I'll go to Hollywood,” she says, peeling away the fabric. “I hear they don't care what you are out there, so long as you're pretty and can make people money. So, you know, living the dream. That's the plan.” She flashes a smile up at the other woman before lowering her mouth.

And whatever Peggy has to say in response to that, whether it's skepticism or encouragement or an impassioned invitation to stay with her and never, ever leave – whatever it is, it all gets turned into a low moan of _don't stop_.

 

 

_IX. Undesirables_

  
They receive a CID man from Tokyo.

Howard doesn't catch his name upon introductions and, despite several pointed looks and brow-wiggling at Jarvis, is not able to get it before they've launched straight into the business of whether Howard's going to lose his best doctor to a life-ruining scandal. Within ten minutes, Howard goes from chuckling about it to wanting to wring the fellow's neck.

The CID man looks like he should be selling insurance door-to-door stateside, somewhere sweaty and vile like northern Florida. Howard looks him up and down, lights a cigar, and sits down behind his desk.

“Now who'd you say sent you?”

“General Taylor,” the CID man says, rotating his shoulder cuffs a little like it might make his suit fit better. “I specialize in rooting out undesirable elements. We heard tell that there might be some in your unit.”

Howard puffs out a satisfyingly thick swirl of smoke. “That so?”

The CID man shrugs. “Don't feel bad or nothing, it can be hard to spot them when you're too close.” He studies Howard. “You too close?”

Howard only grins around his cigar.

“Now, in addition to all the officers, I'm going to have to interview the two nurses, of course.”

“Doctor,” Howard says.

The CID man blinks ponderously at him. “I'm a lieutenant.”

“No – Major Carter. She's a doctor, not a nurse.”

The man's eyebrows make a break for his hat brim. “That's highly irregular,” he says after a moment. He scratches his stubbled chin and shakes his head. “Check mark in the guilty column right off the bat.”

Howard doesn't say anything, just tightens his lips. Jarvis, hovering diffidently in the doorway, doesn't give up so easily. “What can you possibly mean by that?” He adds belatedly, “Sir?”

The CID man glances between the two of them, nonplussed. “Well, it's a choice, isn't it – any woman who becomes a doctor can't possibly have the time to attract a man, let alone keep him.”

Howard traces the rim of his gin glass and says tonelessly, “If you read my notes, which Jarvis here attached to Thompson's original complaint, you'll remember that Major Carter has been engaged once before. Her man died just over a year ago. Reason plenty to not go looking for another just yet, if you ask me.”

The CID man doesn't look impressed. “I have asked you,” he says, turning to go without so much as a salute. “And now I'm going to ask her.”

–

The interview is not going well. If asked to pinpoint the moment it started to look grim, Angie would have to say it was around time the man introduced himself.

“...And then, in our spare time, we like to partake in some freelance abortioning,” Angie finishes. “Gotta make a living somehow, right, Peg?”

Peggy doesn't appear to appreciate her contributions to the interview and doesn't even glance at her.

The CID Man frowns. “Not that I don't appreciate your contributions to this interview, Lieutenant, but I don't find that kind of comment very amusing.”

“Bet you would if you saw my paycheck.”

“Angie,” Peggy says, finally giving her a look.

They're sitting in Peggy's tent, for want of a better discreet place to hold the interview. Well, _they're_ sitting. Angie's standing over in the corner and occasionally pacing.

Peggy turns back to the CID man and says in very reasonable, diplomatic tones, “Some of my colleagues are a little suspicious of an unmarried woman of my age and background. Since we have no evidence to discuss, I don't know what else I can offer you except the very firm conviction that a warzone is no place for a civilized human, let alone medical personnel, to conduct a romance.”

After this is all over, Angie thinks, they are going to have to have so much sex to rid the place of the bad memories.

“I take my position very seriously, Lieutenant,” Peggy says. “You cannot possibly think I'd be _here_ if I didn't.”

“In my experience, women have all sorts of crazy reasons for wanting what they want,” the CID man says. He looks her over. “All sorts of ways of getting what they want too.”

Peggy puts a hand up just as Angie takes an outraged step forward. The CID man eyes her for a moment before sighing.

“Look, my job's an unpopular one for a reason, and it's not just because no one likes to hear what I have to say. I can't just go around accepting everything based on arguments of common sense and human decency.” He shrugs. “It's antithetical to the job.”

“Your job sounds very grim,” Peggy says coolly.

He quirks a smile and leans back on his stool. “Just the way it works. People are corruptible, and military types even more so. I know a Colonel in Tokyo who sells supplies on the side to keep himself in liquor and geishas. Pays off various authorities so they'll look the other way.”

Angie's mouth drops, “And we're supposed to accept judgment from the likes of _you_?”

“You've got me all wrong, sweetheart,” the CID man says amiably, though his eyes flash in warning. “I don't pass judgment on anyone. I just carry out the sentence.”

–

“I need to see Colonel Stark immediately.”

Jarvis is cleaning his camera lenses in the outer room of the Command tent, all of them spread out on the desktop in front of him like nothing more important is going on today. He doesn't look up when Nurse Martinelli approaches.

“Colonel Stark isn't in. He's very busy.”

Martinelli slaps her hands down on the desk. “Jarvis, if we don't do something, Peggy's goose is cooked.”

Jarvis looks pained when he finally glances up at her. “I'm afraid there is nothing the colonel can do. Captain Thompson's got the ear of General Taylor and – ”

Martinelli commandeers his arm and starts tugging. “Nope, too bad. You and me, we're going over to his quarters right this minute and talking him through it. There's got to be something he can do.”

She hauls him out of the tent.

The folks in the camp have all seen up close and personal what a country on a warpath looks like, but they haven't seen Angie Martinelli. People get out of her way real quick when they see her marching with Jarvis in tow. And no one follows. Not even their whispers.

They reach Stark's tent and, after a slightly undignified tussle, Martinelli prevents Jarvis from knocking. She casts him a slightly victorious look and reaches to slam the door open. Inside, they find themselves faced with a singularly astonishing sight.

The CID Man and Nurse Underwood are locked in a passionate embrace.

After a single wide-eyed moment of staring, Jarvis doesn't know where to look. It's all very indecent; their lips are crushed together, her hands gripping his shoulders tight. As he's avoiding the sight, he notices with heavy disapproval that the Colonel's personal filing cabinet has been left open, several folders strewn about the floor. He has told Colonel Stark to be more _careful_....

“What the hell?” Martinelli says.

Underwood pushes the CID man away instantly and cries out, “Angie, Sergeant Jarivs, thank God! He just leapt upon me, wouldn't listen to a word I said – ”

The CID man glances round at them all for one heavy-lidded, drowsy second before keeling over. He hits the floor hard, knees-first, and Underwood leaps back a foot, hand on mouth.

“What the _hell_?” Martinelli says.

Jarvis, kneeling quickly by his side, looks up at her. “He appears to be out cold.” He lifts an eyelid. “How odd. Do you think he has a history of this in his family?”

“Like – what, narcolepsy? They wouldn't have allowed him in the Army with that. Something else is going on here.” Martinelli looks from him on the floor to Underwood. “What were you two doing in the Stark's tent?”

Poor Underwood folds her arms, looking generally doe-eyed and vulnerable. “He just dragged me in here. I don't know what he had planned.”

Jarvis pokes the CID man again for good measure and receives no response, not even a twitch. His face is slack, mouth smeared heavily with lipstick. Jarvis, shaking his head, gets back to his feet. When he turns to back to Martinelli, he's surprised to find her smiling.

“Jarvis?”

“Yes, Lieutenant?”

Martinelli glances quickly at Underwood and back. “Go get your camera. I think we need to document some things.”

–

So in the end, it didn't come down to their worth as vital members of the unit, or any decency on the part of the CID Man, or even Colonel Stark's willingness to go to bat for the them – no, in true Army fashion, it came down to the pictures Sergeant Jarvis had of the CID Man fraternizing with Nurse Underwood.

The CID Man signs the report and slaps it on the desk, looking angry as hell. Before storming away, he takes a moment to spit at them, “There, your little secret remains safe. That good enough for you?”

And the thing is – it isn't.

But it has to be.

 


	4. Chapter 4

_X. It's morning in Korea_

 

Things return to normal for the 4077th MASH unit.

Colonel Stark is spotted hanging nurses' underthings up to dry in his tent; Sergeant Jarvis tries to convince Anna, a nurse attached to the dentistry division, to marry him after one date in the mess hall; Corporal Dugan learns how to condition and curl his mustache.

Angie doesn't see Thompson or Krzeminski around camp; she learns that they were given a weeklong pass to Tokyo to work out their frustrations. She should be angry that they're being rewarded, but she's too glad of their absence for the feeling to stick.

In fact, she's flying high and feeling invincible. Slipping the noose is one of her very favorite feelings; she thinks she should start making notches in her belt for every time she avoids getting caught. Nothing can ruin her mood right now, not even the glimpse she gets of Nurse Underwood sneaking into the Command tent in the off-hours.

The only problem is that Peggy doesn't seem to share in her feeling of relief.

–

Peggy spends the next several days taking long walks when she's off-duty, trying to clear her head. She knows she should be in good spirits, but she can't seem to shake her mood. All the equanimity she had projected to Angie during the investigation has soured in its aftermath. No surprise there; she's always been better at saying the right things than feeling them.

She can handle the stress of the close call and take all the whispered rumors on the chin, but at the end of the day she is still a supremely qualified doctor being treated like a token curiosity. A woman doctor, said like it was a punchline. A dyke, sneered like it was a Herodotean tale.

She almost wonders if it would have been better to be sent down for indecency. Get out of the military once and for all, leave behind all this retrograde mess. The feeling lasts until she makes her next check-in with her patients, those unbearably young men with the glint of the firefight still in their eyes.

One afternoon a week after the CID man departs from the camp, Angie finds her sitting out on one of the more secluded hillsides overlooking the minefield.

“We never had that picnic, you know,” she says, announcing her presence, though Peggy had been aware of her from the first snap of bramble twenty feet back.

Peggy turns to smile up at her. “No, we didn't. You distracted me every time I tried planning it.”

Angie steps in close and takes a seat beside her, snugging up hip-to-shoulder. “You military lifers think you need to plan everything. It's not like we have a wide choice in food. It's gonna either be the chicken that looks like beef, or the beef that looks like charcoal, you know that.”

Peggy feels her smile slip a little. “I think if these past few weeks proved anything, it's that I'm not a military lifer.”

Angie's face undergoes a complicated series of expressions, but in the end she doesn't respond except to nudge her shoulder. They sit in an easy silence for a few minutes, taking in the breezy day and uncommonly peaceful horizon.

Peggy thinks of the trouble she's brought to Angie, how she's taken this beautifully spirited and carefree woman and dragged her through all the ugliness and shame the US Army is capable of conjuring up. It twists at her insides.

“You know, Angie,” she finds herself saying, “there's no reason for you to stick around here after all this mess. I know you have other plans for when you get back. You could request a transfer at any time.”

Angie is silent, watching her with raised eyebrows for a long moment. Finally she says, “And what? Miss out on this fine war we got going on here? Come on, English.”

Peggy is not prepared to just let it go. She can't do anything about the rest of the camp; she can do something about this.

“I meant what I said during that investigation. I did this once before and it didn't work out well – a warzone is no place for a relationship.”

Angie hesitates, looking uncharacteristically nervous. “Is that what this is? A relationship?”

The question throws Peggy; they stare at each other, at a loss.

“Do you...” Peggy shakes her head. “Do you think I would have risked my career and reputation for a, a what? A bit of fun? A dalliance?”

She watches Angie mouthe the word _dalliance_ disbelievingly to herself and feels a cold flood of humiliation start to lap at her edges. She's misunderstood everything. She looks away blindly and pushes up from the ground –

“Wait, Peg!” Angie jumps to her feet and grabs both of her arms, tugging and turning her.

When Peggy meets her eyes, the other woman is breathing fast, her color up. She stammers out, barely coherent, “I just. I've never been with – I mean, I _have_ been with, with loads of... but no one's _ever_ – ”

She stops and stares at Peggy, stricken.

Humliation giving way to bewilderment, Peggy stares back.

Angie stomps her foot and spits out like a curse, “Oh, I'm no good at this.” And then she's sliding her hands up into Peggy's hair and dragging her forward for a firm kiss.

It's less intentional than most of their previous kisses have ever been. It had no prologue of secret smiles and coded words, no discreet glances around for others' gazes or a waiting period for privacy. They're kissing like men and women the world over are allowed to kiss, out in the open and hearts bursting.

Peggy tastes the sweetness of Angie's mouth for what feels like the first time, the eager slip of teeth and tongue. She feels under her hands the tremor that runs down Angie's back and makes a faint noise in response, twining in closer, tilting her head to get in deeper.

The kiss eventually softens, ellipsising away to shallow, clinging brushes. They break apart just far enough to talk.

Angie whispers shakily, “I don't have a script for this, Peggy. I've never known anyone like you.”

“You're not exactly commonplace yourself.”

Angie swallows. “I'm trying to say, so long as you want me around, 'm not going anywhere. Okay? Is – is that okay?”

Peggy smiles and it feels like catharsis. A slight laugh bubbles up inside her; she's always laughing when Angie is around. “Yes, that sounds lovely.”

They stand there like that, pressed close together, the rest of the world barely clinging on in their peripheral vision.

And then – a faint rhythm on the wind, a tickle to the eardrums.

They draw back, both turning in the direction of the sound. A few seconds later the chopper bursts around the curve of the hill, the force of its rotor whipping wildly at their hair and clothing. It passes them at a fair clip, heading straight for the camp.

Peggy knows they need to go after it immediately. The wounded need to be inspected and prepped for surgery, the on-duty nurses and doctors will need to be mustered.

But before all that, she has one thing to do; with the other woman looking surprised but pleased, Peggy takes hold of Angie and draws her in close once more.

She wants one last kiss before that mouth gets covered up by a surgery mask.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let's see, let's see... First, a huge and whole-hearted THANK YOU to everyone who commented on this story. That encouragement made all the difference to me, I never would have finished this thing without it. Hugs and kisses to all of you!
> 
> And now, notes/disclaimer for the story:  
> 1\. Bedtime for Bonzo is a must-see masterpiece of American cinema that features the 40th President of the United States, Ronald Reagan, starring opposite a chimpanzee.
> 
> 2\. There are references to M*A*S*H strewn throughout, but I should specifically credit 'ether in the aftershave', the beautiful phrase 'freelance abortionists', all jokes about WWII surplus, and, of course, the sleep deprivation and cross-dressing storylines (ilu Corporal Klinger) to the show.
> 
> 3\. “Everybody hit the compound” was a random line Radar said on the episode I happened to be watching while finishing up part 1.
> 
> 4\. The titles for II (A gal was never lost for company) and VI (I'll never get out of this world alive) are both from contemporary songs of the time, Back in the Army and I'll Never Get Out of This War Alive   
> That war kind of got short shrift compared to WWII and Vietnam in terms of popular music, which probably says a lot about its place in the America's collective consciousness.
> 
> 5\. Angie makes a comment the sentiment of which is directly owed to Ygritte from Game of Thrones. You were probably able to spot it if you are/were into that (I am no longer, alas).
> 
> 6\. And of course, it probably goes without saying that I've taken liberties with the finer details of medicine, the doctor draft, the Korean War, and military operations in general. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯


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